


eclipse of the sun

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2019 [6]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Denial, Funerals, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, minus the comfort, so to speak, the character death is central but non on-screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: “He isn’t even really dead,” Parker continues. The priest is still reading from a glossy bible, but the people around them give her dirty looks. Parker knows that talking at funerals is rude, but she doesn’t care. It’s not like it’s a real funeral.
Series: hc_bingo 2019 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1498529
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	eclipse of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a warm-up prompt on tumblr (Parker + cold) which got slightly out of hand and extremely angsty. Also fills my hurt/comfort bingo square 'rejection'.

  
Her scarf is thick and black and way too tight. She keeps tugging at it, loosening the loop around her throat until it’s too big to stop the cold, taking it off and winding it around her neck again. Rinse, repeat. Hardison grabs her hand at some point, trying to still the restless movement. It works for a while, but then Parker feels like she’s choking again and, well, it’s harder to put a scarf on with one hand but she’s getting pretty good at it.

The chairs around them are mostly empty, but a few of the scattered people keep looking at them. Hardison returned their looks with smiles-that-looked-like-grimaces at first, but now he just looks straight ahead, face blank. Parker turns her hand so she can interlock their fingers, squeezing tightly. Hardison is shivering. Or maybe just shaking. Either way, he doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

Parker pulls her scarf off again, starts to put it back on but it gets caught on her bun so she yanks it off and throws it on the ground.

“I hate this,” she hisses. She’s not talking about the scarf.

Hardison squeezes her hand.

“He isn’t even really dead,” Parker continues. The priest is still reading from a glossy bible, but the people around them give her dirty looks. Parker knows that talking at funerals is rude, but she doesn’t care. It’s not like it’s a /real/ funeral. 

Hardison’s hand is so tight now that it would probably hurt if Parker’s fingers weren’t going numb from the cold. Why the hell is it so cold in October anyway? And whose idea was it to have a graveside service?

Parker hadn’t been worried about the details. Eliot isn’t actually dead so it doesn’t matter. Hardison got a funny look on his face when she said that though. He’d made her sit down beside him, taken her hands in his, and explained very gently that this time it was real, that Eliot really was dead, that they had to make the arrangements and he couldn’t do it alone so he really needed her. Parker had shaken her head. No. Eliot wasn’t dead. Eliot wasn’t allowed to be dead. 

Hardison had looked at her for a long time, patient while she explained the con, but then he’d just stood up and walked out. She’d heard him on the phone later, voice muffled behind the bedroom door. She’d stood there, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to snatches of conversation. Words like _flowers_ and _closed casket_ and _no other family_. Maybe it was Hardison who thought Eliot would like a service outside. Or maybe he just agreed with whatever the person at the funeral home suggested. 

The priest has finally stopped talking. People are standing, Hardison with them. He pulls Parker up with him and she goes, mostly so she doesn’t have to let go of his hand. She’s not sure she could, no longer able to tell where her fingers end and Hardison’s begins, their hands frozen into one solid block.

Hardison throws a flower onto the coffin. Parker stares down at the dark wood and thinks about the funeral home job they did all those years ago. She wonders whether Eliot is really in there. Hardison said he was, but Hardison isn’t freaking out about Eliot being buried alive so maybe he isn’t.

She looks away from the coffin, touches the top of the gravestone instead. /Don’t worry,/ she silently promises, /I know you’re not really dead, I won’t let them bury you/.

Everyone else is leaving, clumps of black drifting off in a jagged, broken line. They dissipate into the cemetery grounds between one blink and the next, like they were never really there. 

Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were just part of the con as well.

Parker turns her face into Hardison’s chest. He wraps his arms around her, head bent so his cheek can rest against her hair. She thinks he might be crying, but doesn’t dare lift her head to check. She thinks she might be crying too, but if she just keeps her eyes closed, keeps her face pressed against the scratchy wool of Hardison’s coat, keeps thinking about how cold her toes are instead of how empty her chest is, she can pretend that the tears aren’t real either.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [here](https://renecdote.tumblr.com/)


End file.
